


Will You Still Need Me?

by hello_goodbi



Category: The Beatles
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, it started off happy, this is sadder than i meant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 01:04:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_goodbi/pseuds/hello_goodbi
Summary: In which Paul hears a song on the radio and remembers things





	Will You Still Need Me?

Paul did not normally listen to his own songs. He felt conceited, and vain, and stuck up if a Beatles song came on the radio and he didn't change the station. Besides, he knew all of those songs inside and out. He could picture the studio where they’d recorded most of the songs -- some memories were a bit hazy, because of various drugs, but they were there nonetheless.

But John was always bright and clear.

Maybe that was the main reason Paul didn’t like listening to his old music.

He missed John.

But, sometimes, if he was feeling particularly sentimental, he’d listen to what came on the radio.

So, when the opening notes of “When I’m Sixty-Four” came on, Paul did not change the station. Instead, he let his mind drift back.

 

_When I get older, losing my hair_

_Many years from now_

 

He was a lovesick sixteen year old, laying on John’s bed with a ciggie between two fingers and a cuppa nestled in the covers.

“Aw, that’s rubbish, lad,” John said, glancing at the hastily scribbled words. 

“Sod off, mate,” Paul grumbled, attempting to shove the other boy without spilling his precious tea. “M’tryin’ to write somethin’ cutesy, like.”

“Somethin’ cutesy, like?” John grinned, pressing a kiss to Paul’s cheek and making the younger boy giggle. “For me, like?” Another kiss. More giggling. The tea was forgotten about and drew dangerously close to spilling. “Yeh shouldn’t’ve, Paulie.”

 

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me_

_When I'm sixty-four?_

 

He was nineteen and high on some combination of the prellies he’d been given and the adrenaline rush from playing live but he just _couldn’t_ take his eyes off of John.

“Fuckin’ hell,” John grumbled, kicking at the floor of the stage. George’s amp had gone out -- again -- and there was a whole club of people they were supposed to be playing for. “Paul, please tell me yeh’ve got somethin’ yeh can play on the piano.”

“Yeh know I’m always ready to play ‘When I’m Sixty Four,’ Johnny,” Paul grinned.

“Well,” John sighed as Paul lightly grabbed the his wrist, “yeah. That’ll give us time to get the amps workin’ again.”

Paul, grinning form ear to ear -- he was more or less neutral on the bass, but he _loved_ the piano -- set his bass down and walked to the piano. As he sat at the bench, he heard John talk to the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” John said, in his cheerful announcer voice, “our amps are down. Sad, sad story. So Paulie here,” a quick glance at each other and a grin, ”is goin’ to steal all the women in the crowd with a heart-wrenchin’ ballad.”

“Aw, thanks, Johnny,” Paul responded sarcastically, amidst the cheers of (presumably the ladies in) the crowd. “This is ‘When I’m Sixty Four,’ and lads, I’m sorry if yer birds get on yeh about gettin’ married after this. Me bird brought it up herself.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie. John _had_ jokingly proposed. Well, _mostly_ jokingly, at least.

 

_You'll be older too_

_And if you say the word_

_I could stay with you_

 

He was twenty and the love of his life was getting married to somebody else and he had to sit still and do _nothing_.

“Oh, look at you, then,” Paul smiled, trying to force the bitterness out of his voice as he patted John on the back. “All grown up and about to be married. Feel like a proud father meself.”

“Don’t you start,” John snapped, and Paul took a step back. 

“Johnny, love-”

“Yeh can’t call me that anymore.”

“Johnny,” Paul pleaded, taking the older boy’s hand. 

“I’m gettin’ married, Paul. Paulie.” John was squeezing Paul’s hand, squeezing the life out of it, and his voice was desperate. 

“Yes, Johnny, I-”

“I’ve got a kid on the way, Paulie. A kid. I can’t keep doin’ whatever this is.” John gestured helplessly with one hand, his other never leaving Paul's. “Whatever this is.”

“ _John_.” Paul didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he wanted to say _something_ that would keep John with him.

“I love you, Paulie.” John’s voice was wobbly and shaky and sad. 

And John, with one final squeeze, dropped Paul’s hand and walked away.

“It’s just one of ‘is moods, Paul,” came a voice from behind him, and Paul jumped a little bit, but relaxed when he saw it was just Eppie. “Y’know how ‘e is sometimes. ‘E’ll get over it.”

“Oh, God, I hope so,” Paul said, and before he knew what was happening he was holding back tears against Eppie’s shoulder.

 

_I could be handy, mending a fuse_

_When your lights have gone_

 

He was twenty-three and still madly, _madly_ in love. He’d come to Kenwood to write songs, but John had attacked him as soon as he’d gotten the door and days like that were painfully rare so Paul dropped every notion of songwriting and kissed John back.

“John,” he breathed between kisses, gently pushing the man away. “Johnny. Love.”

“Aw, shut up ‘n’ kiss me,” Paulie,” John responded, his lips pulled back in an irresistible smirk. 

“Cyn? And Jules? Where are they?” Paul managed, his breath hitching as John’s fingertips danced across Paul’s chest.

“Out for the day, Paulie. Yeh didn’t really think I’d ask yeh over with the two of them here, did yeh?” John said, fingers snaking lower, lips attaching themselves to his neck, and Paul didn’t think he’d be able to form a coherent thought if they didn’t stop-

“C’mon, Paul. Yeh gonna kiss me or not, like?”

 

_You can knit a sweater by the fireside_

_Sunday mornings go for a ride_

 

He was twenty-four, and things were getting harder but Paul wasn’t going to give up. Not on John. Not ever.

They’d played their last concert earlier in the year -- it’d almost been four months and Paul was _itching_ to play live again -- because the other three wanted to experiment. So, Paul had given up on convincing the others to tour. He shifted his focus, and dove headfirst into this new album.

Anything to keep the band together, right?

“Paulie, remember that one song yeh’d written? When I get older, or somethin’ like that?” John asked, relaxed on his couch, lightly plucking at the guitar across his lap.

“Why, d’yeh want to put that one on there? Thought yeh didn’t like it much.”

“‘S’not somethin’ I’d write, no. But I like it.” John admitted, setting the guitar down and looking at Paul, almost sadly. “I should’ve married yeh.”

“John, don’t,” Paul said, reaching out to gently grasp John’s hands. “Don’t think like that.”

“Yeh wrote that song about _me,_ Paulie. And I said I would. Said I’d be there for yeh, even if we were both old and gray. And now I’ve gone and married Cyn.”

“And I’m going to ask Jane to marry me, Johnny,” Paul said gently. “Yeh can’t marry me, love. God knows I want to, but ‘s’not allowed.”

“I want to, though,” John was tearing up -- he was high, the was the only possible explanation --and Paul felt choked. “I want to hold yer hand and kiss yeh and I just want yeh to be _mine._ ”

“I _am_ yers, Johnny. I’ll always be yers.”

And then John was crying, and Paul was hugging him, and he just couldn’t help but wonder how things had gotten  _so_ fucked up.

 

_Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight_

_If it's not too dear_

_We shall scrimp and save_

 

He was twenty-seven, with a wife and a kid on the way, and he was tired of trying to keep this band together but he just _couldn’t_ give up. Not on John. 

“ _Married_.” John sputtered, the disbelief evident in his voice. They were trying to record for this damn album but they could get next to nothing done. “I still can’t believe yeh got married.”

“Fuck off, John. I love her,” Paul said angrily. “It’s been five months. Why are yeh so angry about it still?” 

“Because yeh don’t. Yeh don’t love her, “ John said bitterly. “Yeh did it for the baby.”

“Leave the kid out of this, huh? Yeh married Cyn just for Jules.” 

“Okay, then. Let’s pretend yeh _didn’t_ marry her to save face. Yeh married to spite me.”

“Yeh’ve been married _twice_. If anybody is doin’ somethin’ out of spite, it’s yeh.”

“Yoko is _different_ -”

“She’s a bloody tart, is what she is.”

“Don’t yeh _dare-”_

“I love her. I love Linda, and I married her, and that’s the _end_ of that.”

“No, yeh _don’t_ , Paul,” John said, and the desperation in his voice was just barely audible. “Yeh love _me_.”

“I love her now like I loved you once,” Paul said, calmly (though his voice was shaking), and John’s mouth was left agape.

And Paul took his coat off of the rack and left John in silence. Only a carefully trained eye would’ve been able to detect the single tear that almost fell onto his cheek.

The band didn't make it another year after that.

 

_Send me a postcard, drop me a line_

_Stating point of view_

 

He was twenty-eight, and the Beatles were over and it was him and Linda now and it was just so _hard_ to resist attacking John in his songs. 

 

_Indicate precisely what you mean to say_

 

He was twenty-nine, and hearing John attack him in his songs was absolute _hell_ but at least it meant John still thought about him.

 

_Yours sincerely, wasting away_

 

He was thirty-one and John was separated from Yoko -- for at least a little bit, anyways -- and _he had his John back._

 

_Give me your answer, fill in a form_

 

He was thirty-three and thank _god_ for Linda because he _still_ got angry about John and she was the only one who could talk him down.

 

_Mine for evermore_

 

He was thirty-eight and when he got the news that John had died he forgot how to breathe.

 

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me_

_When I'm sixty-four?_

 

He was seventy-five and crying in his car because fifty-nine years ago, when he started to write this song, he’d thought John would be here and be in his life but he wasn’t.

He was seventy-five and crying in his car because _he_ had needed John, damnit, and John wasn’t here.

He was seventy-five and crying in his car because it had been almost forty years since John died and Paul still felt like he’d been stabbed thinking about it.

He was seventy-five and crying in his car because he missed John.

_ Fuck, _  he missed John.


End file.
